The Bond Supremacy
by ronnierocketAGO
Summary: 007 is on the trail of an American rogue agent named Jason Bourne. Sorry for the year-long wait, but for those that survived, a surprise story-turn is your reward.
1. M for MidMorning Briefing

_**London, England**_

On the 13th of June at 9 in the morning, in the year 2005, the office of the director of the British Secret Intelligence Service was rather quiet compared to the hectic non-stop activity going on outside within the building. The elderly female director, one of many in a long line of directors for MI 6 with the code-name "M", patiently waits for one particular field agent.

The door creaks open.

"Morning, M"

"Greetings 007. Sit down."

As he seated himself in front of M's authoritative desk, his mind whispered to himself with the wish that this M would be more casual, with both her personality and liquor cabinet, in dealing with him. At least she doesn't question his methods and results…as much.

"Agent 007, what can you tell me about Nykwana Wombosi?"

"Central African dictator overthrown by a military coup about 4 years ago, assassinated by a mystery sniper in Paris two years ago. If I remember right, the Western powers supported him quite well as a bulwark against Islamic extremists. That is, until he decided to go his own way, and…"

M bluntly interrupts him. "Good, you know of him. What did you hear about his death?"

"I never really looked in depth into the matter, but there was unsubstantiated rumors that the assassin was working for the current military regime that didn't want Wombosi to be a possible rallying human coat hanger for which opposition can hang onto, to the CIA wanting Wombosi to be silenced after his supposed claims that a gunman of theirs tried to eliminate him on the Mediterranean Sea."

"Well, those theories, among others, was also drawn up by MI 6 at the time, but until now, we had no trail to which to work with."

"What's happened?"

"Our mole within the CIA in Langley, Virginia has come upon the existence of a terminated project that operated within Paris at the time of Wombosi's murder. This "Treadstone" project involved the intense programming and training of field agent assassins to be the best spooks, to put it that way, in the world."

"This project Treadstone, I assume you're referring to that it involved the usage of the Gilgenheim Method, much like in our own similar operation?"

"Yes, and apparently from reading these files, our mole has informed us as well that their operatives suffer from the same ailments as ours: massive migraines, periods of physical numbness, and so on. By the way 007, I will pretend that you somehow don't know of our own program."

Bond quipped. "What program?"

"Excellent, now our CIA mole, who's been deep undercover within the American intelligence community for several years now, he has a name for which we can work with".

"With friends like us, why have enemies?"

M was in no mood for humor. "Besides being connected somehow with the Wombosi assassination, this man has apparently been on the run since then as a rogue agent. Three months ago, he was cited for possible involvement in an apparent CIA sting that resulted in two agents and a contact murdered at an office building in Berlin. However, for some reason, after they located him in Moscow and failed to apprehend him, they removed his name as a priority suspect for what occurred in Berlin."

"Somehow? Does our mole not have all the files?"

"It took him months to sneak a peak into these high-level classified documents, and only for a few minutes without being compromised. He knows his status is monumentally more significant than some papers."

"Of course."

"However, our mole did catch one operative's report comments that which indicated that this rogue agent may have been also involved with what happened to Neski."

Bond's ears stood attention. "Neski? I thought he was a poor case of his wife being insane and committing murder-suicide, but I assume that with this dark spook's history, that story is quite fictional"

"Exactly 007, and that is why we are sending you to Moscow. Before his death Neski, he was on the cusp of unveiling of what happened to Operation Joker, and along with the associated package that we thought lost, to which you know all about. If this enemy operative was indeed the one who eliminated him, he may know the information that we want. You have the license to kill 007, but remember we need this data. A corpse won't help us."

Bond got up from his seat. "So what is the name of this…"

M cut him down once again. "Our mole says his name is Bourne. Jason Bourne"


	2. Natural Bourne Killer

**_New York City, USA_**

Trees.

Laughter.

Bullet shells.

Snow

Explosions

A person's severed limb.

The 30sh young man wakes up in total fear and sweat. Though for the last two years, that is daily routine for him. The covert agent that until three weeks ago thought that the identity of Jason Bourne was truly his, until CIA operative, and previous spy predator, Pamela Landy revealed from the locked vaults of secrets and truth of Langley, Virginia the very two words that rocked his world:

David Webb.

With his dreams, he could recover pieces one by one of his past before he got amnesia two years ago. He could write down every detail he could remember into his notebook, and to which tries to piece some sort of narrative of his life. But this is not the same without Marie. He did not want to remember her. The pain is too much in his soul.

Jason, or David, got up from the stained mattress from his inhabitable room at a low-down dirty and disgusting flophouse in the slums of the Big Apple. He could easily check into the 5-star hotels downtown, but keeping himself anonymous and out of the government's radar override any needs for luxury. In the Spartan room of his, where only his bed, sink, and personal handbag of essentials inhabit it, he takes his long coat laying next to his bag and decided to take a walk.

He scans the hallways, always paying attention to minor details that do not compute with the patterns that are naturally taken with normalcy. All of the residents' doors are locked, and the only sounds that can be heard are television sets, loud chatter between people, and the obvious thumping sounds of passion. That was another reminder of her that he didn't want.

He makes his way through the stairs and onto the streets. With the teeth-clapping coldness of this city at this time of year, he warmly puts his coat against him, and he roams the sidewalk. With this neighborhood a noted region of the city for criminal activities, he keeps his senses alert around him. Never mind that, to the best of his knowledge, the CIA has no clear idea of his present location, but he can never assume that he is safe from their or anyone else's grasps, like Goa.

Three times since he woke up that her face has back into the no man's land of his mind. Without her love for him, he was simply flesh and bones that worked in automation like a robot. But now she is dead, and only because they wanted to eliminate him. They succeeded very well.

Bourne shrugged his head and forcefully put his attention to more urgent matters. Since being given his real name of David Webb (and that is assuming its authentic), he has tried to quietly search for this primal identity of his. The problem is that hundreds of known American-born citizens carry that name, and they have regional hooks that sink into almost every corner of the states. Damn. Still, he has eliminated names from the greater state of New York, Rhode Island, and Pennsylvania since his 88 second call to Landy.

His hears then catch something up ahead of him with his alert ears. Massive foot movement, very rough, by several bodies in an alleyway only 26 steps from here. Knowing very well that it may be another would-be assailant scrambling to take him down with a silent automatic, he jogs smoothly towards the sounds.

His eyes gives him the briefing of what the sounds are. No governmental warriors wanting a piece of him, but instead three creeps grabbing and tearing a poor woman's clothes apart. They want their urges met tonight, in violence.

His programming instinctively tells him that they don't know of his presence. This isn't of any concern nor danger for him, and that the proper action would be to gently walk towards a safe distance. However, like in Paris, Berlin, and Moscow, his heart gives the commands now.

He lunges forward and immediately gives a broken nose to the man trying to rip the girl's pants apart. Blood flies in all directions from his nostrils, as the hoodlum holding the woman down sees Bourne. But before he could react fast enough, Bourne gives a leg sweep, which effectively breaks thug #2, a snacked ankle. His targets wither in pain as the third man watches Bourne. He backed off after his buddies got smacked around, but now is ready to tear up this would-be vigilante with his reliable short blade. He swings, and Bourne easily dodges it. Bourne snaps the knife from the man's hand and promptly stabs his switchblade-wielding right hand. His hand won't operate for a good while.

Bourne promptly grabbed the traumatized girl from the ground of the alley and quickly paces off before the criminals knew that he has vanished. Bourne is escorting the woman towards a local police precinct 3 city blocks away. The 20sh girl is partially terrified with this mysterious man that saved her from a ravishing, but she grateful considering the alternatives to what just happened.

They reach a corner, and Bourne sees the police station of the New York Police Department. He gives a step, then realizes it. He can't go in there, and possibly blow his cover. Worse yet, she knows his face, and probably will give a detailed sketch to the police. What can he do?

He pauses and looks towards this girl that is slowly recovering from shock.

The girl doesn't understand what is happening. "Why have you stopped?"

Bourne will have to wing this one out. "I can't go in there"

"How come? You in serious trouble?"

The Understatement of the night.

"Let's say that I am of sorts, and because of what I did back there, I risk myself into being involved in major problems with the police if I walk through those doors."

She fails to decipher r what exactly the trouble he is in for, but silently nods her head in some form of understanding.

"I'll tell those cops that some hoods tried to have their way with me, and that as they started a fight among themselves over me, I harshly slapped a guy's nose and was able to scram off."

"Good enough story for the police to accept."

"But, what about if they catch my attackers, and they divulge about what you did to them?"

"They won't because if they are to reveal my company, they will only end up incriminating themselves to a good stretch of time in prison."

She agrees. She walks off towards the precinct office when she reverses herself back to Bourne.

"Thank you so much. What's your name?"

Bourne searched his memory towards that safe deposit box back in Zurich, with all those fake identity passports. He remembered one of several Canadian passports, with a name that'll work for this one girl.

"Michael Lemieux"

She buys it. She turns around and heads off towards the safe house of the city's police. Bourne then notices something on the ground that she had accidentally dropped.

No, he saw her hands intentionally drop an item while trying to appear this action to be by mistake. He reaches down and picks up a card, and which he turns to see that it's a business card for an office. She probably was a worker at this corporate place.

Wait, did she leave him her number?

He walks back towards his "home", but while keeping a clear eye for any of those wrecked baddies who might be scouring the streets for his blood. Thankfully, they may be occupied tonight with their pain.

He puts his coat down on the floor of his room, and lies down on his mattress. He picks up the girl's card from the coat's pocket and looks at it.

His body is attracted to her, along withhis senses. Yet, he is resistant. What about Marie? I can't simply leave her dedication for me for a one-night stand or any possible longer engagement. She was loyal to me.

But she is dead. Unless Bourne took supernatural religion to heart, he could believe in things as the afterlife, but he doesn't. She is gone, and the only living remnants of his mate are those that are lodged in both his memories and his emotions.

He puts the card away, still debating if he wants to possibly go forward. He'll decide later, but as he relaxed back into the state of dreams, he is sure of one thing. He only has vague ideas and images of who he was before the amnesia. But, the man that escaped the waters of the Mediterranean was not like the stone cold eliminators of the CIA. He still has their skills and training, but he is on his own side. He decides what he will do. Maybe that is why governmentsare terrified of him.


	3. To Russia With Love

_**Moscow, Russia**_

Sheremetyevo International Airport. Over 12 million passengers are processed every year, here at Moscow's largest airport. But Commander Bond just simply didn't care at all about being part of such a massive and insignificant number, no matter how many times he's read the cheap pamphlet provided by MI 6. The six-hour flight is making him itch to do something once he gets out. What that action would be, well his imagination is capable for the challenge.

The plane finally lands, and Bond is relieved once he leaves the terminal. At least he doesn't have to worry about the Soviet airport security procedures from way back in the day. He carries only his suitcase, and hails a cab. With his still-fluent Russian tongue, Bond hires the drive to transport him towards a city park on the outskirts of the capital.

Once at the gates of the snowed-in park, he gives more Euros than the driver charged him. After the obligatory, half-hearted attempt by the driver to return the extra cash, he drives his cab out of sight. Bond knew the driver wouldn't protest against a nicer payday. Still with his suitcase, he walks through the gates.

Thirty-five minutes standing in the middle of this park, deep within the heart of Mother Russia. Thankfully he wore the double layers of coats on his back. This park usually is a popular site for people to use to gaze into the distant, scenic horizon of the trees. Bond gazed into the distance and was stuck in deep reflection.

"My God, how much of my life did I spend in this country?"

He was trained in his youth with the threats of Soviet geo-political aggression and possible nuclear holocaust as being the facts of life. Soon after he had garnered his precious double-zero spy operative ranking, he was fighting Russian agents many years his senior in the slum apartments of this city. Bond was a prodigy agent for British Intelligence. He had soon achieved in accomplishments and daring, but deeply classified, feats of bravery and victories within 7 years that took most MI 6 workers 30 years to complete. With all those missions and jobs within this enigma of a country, he almost feels part Russian by now.

The Russians greatly feared and admired him all at once. The KGB, and later the FSB after the Soviet Union collapsed, forever wanted his head on a silver platter. Bond still believed they have a special mount on the wall at their Moscow HQ just for him. Yet ironically, the next to last Chairman of the KGB awarded Bond the Order of Lenin. If his records are declassified in the future, decades after Bond finally meets his demise whatever by bullet or booze, the world will know of Bond as the only non-Soviet citizen to ever hold that distinction, among other honors.

Of course, he probably was given that medal for helping the Russians when it benefited them and his precious Queen and Country. God knows how many of the KGB and FSB's rank and file went berserk, and visa versa with the CIA and MI 6's own nut jobs, that both sides had to collaborate in taking down for the general welfare. Though Bond did admit he didn't mind knocking KGB steroid-test baby-turned-psychotic industrialist Zorin to his death in San Francisco.

Collaboration. With that word, Bond remembered all those women of Russia. Their faces, with warmth and passion they shared with him in these frozen lands, now simply are ghosts of his past. Though that one did his –

A twig snaps. Bond went back to reality and put his right hand inside his coat, onto his trusted Walter PPK. Someone was coming. Who is it? The late arrival of his contact could mean this. A deathsquad of assassins are within my breathing space. Bond is trapped.


	4. Live and Let Him Die

_**The Bronx, New York City, USA**_

Donnie had cooked himself a decent dinner of spaghetti. Hell, he even took the time stir his own meat sauce, from his mother's recipe, but now it'll go cold. He tends to lose his appetite when he is pissed.

Within his dumpster of an apartment residence hideout, in his very own kitchen, he's trying to comprehend what the shaking and shambling George is telling him across the poker table-turned-dinner table. Trying to calm a clocker on your roster, who also happens to be hooked on his own supply, is almost pointless. Worse, the cotton balls up in his nostrils means useless here breathes in-between the illegible words that he utters out.

"Man…Man…Man, what we like gonna do?"

"First, tell me exactly what happened. Tell me everything that you, Frankie, and Mack."

"Well, well…"

"Stop stammering or your nose is smashed for good, you mutt"

"Ok, like me and the guys were doing like our delivery rounds…We came to that chick we were telling you about, and she don't have the money she owes us…She then disses us. That's when we wanted her to pay up…with her body. We wanted to teach her a good lesson. Then…that guy comes in and takes us out…Boom…Smack…and then he and the chick was gone."

"Alright George, what else can you tell me about this wrecker. How did one guy take all three of you quite quickly as you put it? I know I can't depend on you all for muscle jobs, but Jesus Christ…"

"He was like super fast…and like he used karate or some hardcore stuff. I didn't know cops do judo now…"

"You idiot, he aint a cop."

"But how did he like know judo…"

"Do you even know what judo is? Jesus Christ, this is a bad case of hemorrhoids that I don't need, just when we're about to move on up…"

"You know…we had like never seen him before…he could be a passer-by…maybe we shouldn't worry too much."

Donnie suddenly took the empty pan on his table, and slammed it against George's head. The junkie clocker fell back and lay on the floor in utter agony, for the second time in two days.

Donnie hovered above him. "We are THIS close to a cola partnership with Big Vito Valentine, and this ninja comes out of no where, and YOU think it's a COINCIDENCE? Get up and get out of here!"

Donnie grabbed George and thrust him up to his feet. Yup, George's nose is broken again. "boss, what you want me to do?"

Donnie paused. "Nothing. Scram over to Wally's corner. You'll be an extra body for him. I'll take care of this bed wetter." George shook his way out through the door.

The headman of this gang was at a loss of thought. His boys on the streets had not been messed with seriously in the last few weeks by either the cops or rivals for weeks. Nobody wants to screw with Big Vito. No, this guy is here for a reason. He somehow knew about the girl, and used that to ambush the dealers. Maybe he's a narc, or a military guy back home wanting to be a superhero. Hell, he's probably a merc that our competition hired to bolt everything up for us.

Whatever, this spoiler is going to get whacked. Donnie knew that his would-be major league sponsors can't know of this mystery man or crippling one of his thugs' hands up to the point that he probably can't even do a self-sex job for himself. Yeah, that's it. The police will find his body in a dumpster up in Harlem, and whoever hired him will know not to mess with Donnie.

Looked down at his floor, and through his mind he uttered: "Crap, what am I gonna do about dinner now?"


	5. You Only Live Once

_**Moscow, Russia**_

Bond scanned the perimeter with his senses. What he doesn't know, he can guess with his apt gut killer instinct that he's defined over the years. The contact knew of the meeting time and place. There is no excuse to be late, unless…a whole platoon of assassins is ready ambush him. He's faced death enough times to the point that death must have grown tired of him. Just like the women in his life.

His ears detect the footsteps from a distance. If there were hit men, he would have felt their presence by now. He doesn't hear the soft smashing of the snow or ice on the ground. He notices no alteration with the wind sound texture.

Walking through the plowed stone-road of this park, a young light-skinned man in his 20s, in the colors and threads of a Moscow policeman and confronts the Englishman, so very far away from home.

The thick Russian accent hits the air. First in the language of the natives, and then in the Queen's tongue: "What is your business here, sir?"

Bond knew he had a 50/50 chance of being in safety or adding another name to his lengthy kill list. He gives a firmer grip to his gun as he responded in English. "I'm here for the scenery".

"Oh yes, it's a beautify landscape. Aren't you stirred by it?"

Behind his stone-cold face, Bond exhales. "No, I'm shaken by it."

"Really? Well, I know a better place within the park that civilians aren't allowed access into. You want to take a good drive?"

Score. The two men get into the police car and drive into a secluded and isolated section of the park that is locked by natural defense barriers of trees. With Bond in the passenger seat, the policeman parks the car.

The Russian accent dies and an authentic American voice emerges from the cop. "So are you Commander Bond…"

SMACK. Bond gives the American a good whacking to the face, and now his Walter PPK is aimed at the kid's forehead.

"Who says I'm who you claim to be? For all you know, I could have been a double agent that successfully pulled you out of your cover, and now given conclusive reason to assassinate you."

The young American, with an upper-southeastern regional accent, pulls his hands away from his face. Good, no major damage from Bond's signature love tap.

"Okay Ok, you're right. But how did you know that was, well, me?" A snot of blood is bubbling from one of his nostrils.

"I didn't. That's the thing that you will learn about this job, if you live long enough. One never knows for sure, and must hedge his bets for any possibility. Don't ever forget that. Unless a novice like you wants to forget…"

"Yeah, how can one forget a broken nose?"

"Exactly the point. Besides, you were late" Bond puts his trusted weapon back into his coat. But enough of the freeadvice.

"So, I take it you're one of Jack Wade's net of fresh fish. How is Mr. Wade?"

The kid blows the mucus and blood from his bruised nostril into a napkin he pulled from his pocket. "He's still held up over in the damn nightmare that is Baghdad."

Bond wasn't thrilled that one of his reliable associates is knee-deep in such a zone mixed with anarchy and war. Hopefully he won't get blown up or worse, held hostage. Then again, Wade should be able to handle himself. Hell, he made it through Vietnam and Central America. He'll be fine.

"Anyway, I'm Scott, nothing more or less, and I believe you're here in connection with that bad hand of cards we got in that damn poker game from two years ago."

"Caused by that Joker card that came back to haunt you a few months ago?"

"I know this sounds obvious Commander Bond, but we aren't talking. I'm not driving. I didn't meet you at this city park. You didn't just hit me and then aimed your gun at me. Wade didn't sky phone me with orders, with no input from and to Langley, to assist you while you're here in Moscow in regards to that Joker card. With that clear, what do you want to know? "

"Good, now tell me what you know, official and off the books. I'm sure Wade and you were also privy in letting you know what he heard from the streets of Europe."

"From what he briefed me about over his non-official, personal owned sky phone from Baghdad, he only knows a few more details than what you already know. For one thing, he knows there is a connection between that CIA sting in Berlin and Neski. Fact was, our side was trying to acquire the police files of Neski's murder from the Moscow archives for millions until they and their Moscow contact got whacked, with the money taken. Our only clue of who was behind it was a fingerprint belonging to…"

"Jason Bourne" Bond replied coldly.

"Yes, and from there the CIA squad under our chief agent increased with extra manpower and materials as we sought him out. But from there, the crap hit the fan. For starters, Bourne had been out of our visual sights for two years, and then he reappears quite so openly, with passport under his name, at an airport in Rome in July."

"Why would he so obviously expose himself after supposedly stealing the money and files from Berlin? Shouldn't he be half-way around the world by then?"

"Well, that's a good question. After he was detained by one of our agents there, he was able to break free and flee into the night. Next, Mr. Wade heard about Bourne appearing at the house that belonged to the only other surviving agent within Project Treadstone, that in Berlin. But when agents of the task force assigned to take him down, got there, the place was bombed from within. We recovered that last agent's corpse, and no Bourne. Then Moscow happened."

"Explain. Especially tell why the CIA backed off after Moscow."

"Well, an aide of a CIA officer named Abbott -"

"Ward Abbott?"

"Yes. You know him?"

"I only know of who he is, and nothing more. Continue." The kid didn't see through this cold-faced lie from Bond.

"Anyway, an aide of Abbott's was found murdered in that same Berlin building where the CIA sting went wrong. We didn't understand initially why or who was behind it, until the operatives in Berlin noticed that he was found dead at the light fuses, where we had found Bourne's fingerprint. At a second look at the fuses, we noticed something that didn't make any sense. For such a professional operative, he did an extra, unnecessary step that he would know not to do. People like Bourne don't do things without purpose. The fact that there was no purpose for that step means -"

"That Bourne didn't _plant_ the explosives."

"Yes! But then surveillance tapes from the building revealed that the aide went into the building, and half an hour later, Abbott entered. About, say, 40 minutes later, Abbott left the building in a rush, but no aide. We knew that Abbott had killed, or was involved in the murder of his aide. The task force leader herself…"

Bond grew more interest in this tale of intrigue.

"…went to confront Abbott, when that's when he pulled his gun out and blew his brains out."

This is too easy for Bond. "Well, he went out with a bang."

"Heh. The task force had Bourne on the run until he lost us again. But surveillance at the Berlin train depot showed him leaving for Moscow. The force activated the company employees within that city, like yours truly, and we were on. I was with the city police as the unrecognized, under the table ambassador from the company..."

"Is that the wonderful terminology they use for moles now?"

Scott ignores him. "I was on active duty as a street copper when it came over the radio that a FSB agent was chasing an American male, Caucasian, early 30s, brown hair, blue eyes, and which he had shot him. Police and company chased him across the city. God, it was insane. Again, we lost Bourne, but the FSB agent in question had totaled his car into the fork-pillar in an underground section of the city freeway."

Bond is restless. "Nice story. But you didn't answer my question. Besides, for all you know, Bourne could have been an accomplice with Abbott."

"Well, the force found a recorded audio cassette tape in Abbott's room where he basically confessed to killing his aide, and a whole other "job" over in India. Bourne had tricked him…"

"Bourne? He's on the tape? I need to hear…"

Scott became visibly nervous. "Look Commander Bond, Wade Abbott told me of all your exploits and adventures. He wasn't supposed to, but he wanted me to realize that you aren't another posh limey pompous jerk, no offense, so that I wouldn't treat you as such. You're the coolest operative that I've known of, and you have no idea how it's a privilege from a youngster like me to be working with you. But everything I told you, Wade and his boys club aren't supposed to know. We've done a lot of unsanctioned digging. We don't Langley to know that we're hunting and fishing out of season. The tape is secured at Langley, and we can't help you anymore outside of this city. I'm sorry-"

Bond raised his hand. "Scott, I've been in the business long enough. I understand corporate rules. Tell me, who is this woman that led the task force and later called off the priority search on Bourne?"

"Pamela Landy." No bells ringing in Bond's mind.

"Don't recognize the name. What sector she from and how long her service?"

"3-G, and I think about 15 years"

"Umm, she has been there since day one?"

"I believe so."

_Good_, thought Commander Bond. He doesn't know her, but with those number of years, and the fact that she hasn't left that sector since her first day, that means she was under the same trainer that all members of that sector within the CIA in that time span were. He knows _that_ trainer. It looks like he'll have to pay that old trainer a visit later this week.

"Well Scott, thanks for your help to a foreigner lost in this city of yours. I can tell you, I haven't been jabbed into the middle of an amazingly complicated story since...last month?"

The kid laughs. Scott gets closer to Bond's face.

"Oh dude, dude…I didn't even tell you the deal about the Neski girl!"


	6. License to Kill Reinstated

_**Somewhere in Russia?!?!**_

Perhaps the reason why the prisoner can not complain about his dirty, damp and cramp jail cell is because of the fact that this certainly beats the hospital bed he had laid in for months, wallowing in his own body soil and sweat. Handcuffed to the bed and kept in institutional arrest by the police, who monitored every bowel, urinary, and conscious moment of his, he rather enjoyed the freedom of bodily mobility around his cell. Besides, the difference in the canine-level of food that the hospital and prison force-fed him was negligible.

The man kept touching his rough, knotted hair. He knows the prison he was transferred to have a very conservative policy of showering. They say it's to preserve the water supply. He thinks it's another form of abuse against the prisoners, just for the hell of it. They're criminals, who feel sorry for them, right?

He's been here for days, but since his arrival, the prisoner has no clear idea of which actual prison he is at. The administrators and guards refuse to divulge, and he's been kept in total secured isolation from the rest of the prison population.

The man should be feeling the disgrace that he brought upon himself. A FSB agent ousted as a hired gun of a traitor. A willing accomplice of ultra-capitalistic exploiters of the nation's hungry and impoverished. Now he's locked in prison by the government, waiting for the humiliating public trial to follow.

Instead, the only emotions running through his skull are that of anger and fear. He had a good thing going outside his governmental job. Run errands for his employer. Intimidate the competition. Obstruct possible legal threats or investigations against his meal ticket. Whack the occasional headache. Whatever payments he received for moonlighting, he would spend it on hedonistic activities. He threw money at women and narcotics in a night that a lowly industrial worker would earn in a week. He always believed that the good luck he enjoyed could very suddenly reverse it and become a lousy fate.

That fate started with that damn American. All the prisoner had to do was slam a bullet into the American's skull, and leave his remains as a scapegoat for the assassinations he pulled off at Berlin earlier. His employer kept reminding him of how this American was black-ops. So what? He's kills special forces soldiers for breakfast, with spies for dessert. The American knew of his presence, and scrammed. He gave a good chase, before he pulled out his sniper rifle, pulled the trigger, and the Yankee's car drove right into the bottom of the river.

Yet the American arose days later in Berlin and Moscow. How could he have missed? He had a clean headshot.

It must have been his woman. He had seen the American man ride in the passenger seat. The couple must have switched prior to the firing solution. He lacked the remorse to even pity the poor gal.

He had that American within his sight in Moscow. He had shot and wounded the Yankee. After a lengthy car chase, the hit man just had him cornered down in the underground tunnel of the city highway…

That American was sly enough to flip his car around. Without time for reaction, the prisoner had been T-boned him into a road corridor. The violent crash knocked the senses out of him. In the last fleeting moments he would have of conscious freedom, he saw the wrecked American get out of his smashed car. Gun raised in the assassin's direction and staggering towards his immobilized body, the Russian knew the American would avenge for the murder of his woman. As the darkness took over his senses, the Russian hoped he would at least die before the American would get the privilege.

Then the Russian woke up in a hospital. He was alive, and in police custody. His boss was busted by the Interior Ministry, and worse, he was absolutely damaged. 37 broken bones, a severe concussion, quarts of blood lost, along with the nerve feelings in his left index finger. He had been in a serious coma for 12 days. He wished he never woke up.

The prisoner is now awake in a reality where he is definitely afraid. While his employer's arrest was worldwide news, his own apprehension wasn't mentioned at all, which means that the government doesn't want this mercenary revealed to the public. Maybe the military will arrive and painfully interrogate him for what he knows, or simply for giggles. It didn't matter to them. Worse, the government may have simply thrown the key away. A silent, slow demise for this rat. Perhaps even the numerous enemies of his are hiding in the shadows of this fortress are waiting for the opportune time to dispose of this prisoner. A shank to the gut might be in the cards.

Then there is _Jason Bourne_. Why didn't the American simply kill him? Why not take vengeance on the man that killed his wife? No, there were witnesses down in the tunnel. Police units would arrive within minutes. He must have retreated, to fight another day.

_Yes._ Bourne knew the police would get to him, imprison him somewhere, and make him a wonderful sitting duck. Bourne could easily slip into a prison like this and slink along the hallways and into my cell. This very possibility is what kept the Russian up at night. Bourne is just waiting for the perfect moment.

The Russian snapped out of his fear contemplation when he heard footsteps. It's the prison guard that roams his sector.

"Prisoner, you have a guest."

_This late at night?_ Now the prisoner's heart raced. No, not him…

A man slowly walked into the prison cell. The lack of light made the prisoner unable to see this mysterious man's facial features.

The mystery man takes something out from his pockets. A flashlight's illumination reveals the guest.

Now the prisoner felt awkward. He had feared that it was the American, but its not him. No, it's a figure that he's seen for years on television, newspaper, and internet. A guy that is above everyone else, and now he is within his presence at the bottom of the world.

_Is this an imposter? No, why bother with a body double? Could it be the real deal…_

"Are you the man known as Kirill?" He actually sounds just like him.

"Yes, and are you who I think you are supposed to be?"

The mystery man gave a slight laugh. "Indeed I am. I am very sure that you didn't expect my company."

_No shift. _"Of course not, Mr. -"

"Don't say my name. I'm not here."

"Sorry, but while I am honored for you to be meeting me, why are you here?"

"Its good to know that what I liked about the old agency, the real KGB, before it got castrated into becoming the soft kitten that its become, is still alive. No small talk, all results."

Kirill was flattered.

"Anyway, I'm here because I have read your files, or what's left of them before they were burned. Your employer worked with me. I know you are a good solution to possible problems that might get in my way. Are you interested in letting me end the predicament you are in right now?"

"I thought you hated small talk."

The mystery man grinned. "You never know. Some people actually like these dungeons. Sodomites, psychopaths, pedophiles all the usual suspects."

He stepped towards Kirill's face. The bright light temporarily blinds the prisoner.

"If I am to correct this mistake, I will tell you this only once. You won't become a mercenary with no ties to your bosses. If you are to accept my deal, you will become a full-fledged participant of the operations that I and my club of associates will partake. If you attempt to escape or flee from us, you might as well commit suicide, for we won't let you die quickly."

Kirill didn't need time to decide. "Alright, I'll join. But, what of my employer, is he-"

"He's out. He had his fortune like the rest of his partners, and he outright squandered it. He's in the penalty box for good for his mistakes. On the other hand, you can enter the ice now."

"Good. So, how will this work? You pardon me or what?"

"Oh _please. _I don't pardon criminal menaces to society."

Now Kirill is dumbfounded.

The mystery man turned his flashlight off and walked to the door of this cell, now cloaked in darkness. "You know what I hate about this prison? It is notorious at times for its lack of security at midnight on some nights. It can be so lax, that the careless jailers forget to lock-up certain prison cells at that time of night, with guards no where in sight. How terrible. I need to get around to correcting this problem."

With that, the guest was gone.

As Kirill was walking through the thick-snowed forests, miles away from the hell hole he was residing only 3 hours before, he just realized something. No prisoner he knows of else can legitimately claim to have actually walked out the front door of their joint.


	7. Bourne on the Fourth of July

_**New York City, USA**_

One thing that Jason Bourne missed about Goa was his ability to conduct his exhaustive exercise regiment on the vast open beaches. With the compounded urban landscape of New York City, and his need to lay low from the federal radar scope, he is very limited in where and how he performs the very exercises that he needs to be at peak physical shape. Plus, being October in this region of America, its beginning to become more cold than he would prefer. But like anything else, he found a way to deal with this problem.

Each day, he does 100 push-ups and sit-ups each in his room. 20 pull-ups around the back of this ancient building on the fire escape. Around 9AM, after 3 grueling hours of conditioning, he rests and goes off to take a shower, which is an adventure in itself. This flophouse supposedly has a bathroom in each hallway of this 5 story building, with a few toilets and a couple of shower stalls. The problem is, only one toilet ever worked, the only ventilation available was a fat small square window, and one was grateful when instead of cold water smacking the body, lukewarm waters pours out of the showerhead.

Yes, lukewarm water today. Bourne lowered his head and let his mind float away from consciousness. Rare opportunities allow him to do so. Minutes passed as a thin mist of moisture now hover around the stall. He felt breathing flowing upon his neck. Bourne opened his eyes.

**_Marie_.**

She was right there with him in the stall. Her long hair is soaked with water and shampoo. The couple is naked, and utterly exposed to only each other's souls. Bourne is shocked. But how can she be here?

He looked deep into the vastness of her eyes, seeing that she likewise surveyed his eyes, and he quit asking. He readily embraced her, and she welcomes it. She is back.

Bourne landed his lips on her neck, and he kisses succulently. He places his right hand on the back of her very wet head. He feels something gushy. He lifts his hand away. Bourne's eyes lock into his fingers. They are covered in blood. Bourne's heart is revving up its organic hotrod engine. He quickly lifts his head back, and his heart takes a total sky dive. Her face is pale, her eyes have rolled back, and blood is flooding from all of her facial orifices.

_No, No…not this again…NOT THIS AGAIN….God No. Please God, not this again... _

The razor-sharp spikings of ice cold water break him back into reality. The lone Bourne had been in the shower long enough that he's used up all of the stall's warm water. He plants his heads on the stall wall in front of him. He takes a good minute to overcome the absolute horror that he had to witness again. The showerhead continued its frosty liquid assault without pause.

Bourne doesn't seriously believe in the supernatural, but knows for a fact that ghosts exist. For him, his memories from the past are the ghosts that persistently haunt him.

Bourne turns the shower off and left his stall. He wraps his white towel around his waist, and takes a glance at the _Holiday Inn_ trademark stitched into its simplistic tapestry. He never noticed this when he had swiped it from a laundry basket at this bathroom days ago. Apparently he stole it from a fellow thief. He walks out of the bathroom…

…and the barrel of a gun pops in front of his eyes.


	8. The Departed

**_Still in New York City, USA..._**

He walks out of the bathroom…

…and the barrelhead of a gun pops in front of his eyes.

Bourne instinctively grabbed the gun and raised it up to the ceiling, as a bitter struggle ensued with the foreign hand bearing this firearm.

Could this be another dream?

The assassin briefly had the gun lowered at Bourne's face, and dodges his head just in time as this hit man pulled the trigger of the small revolver. The bullet spears right through the bathroom, and demolishes the window into oblivion.

Nope, this is real.

Bourne manipulated his body, within the struggle, into the hallway to face this gunman. The man has covered his face with a ski mask, but he can't hide the fact that despite all of his strength being pooled against Bourne, the latter is winning with his endurance.

Bourne quickly looked over his opponent, seeking a quick method of both disarming and dispatching him. Jason scrolls his eyes down. _This novice has open exposure on his front extremities_. Bourne added more pressure to the gunman's hands so to aim it high above them again.

By recognizing this assassin's body language, his assailant knew what Bourne was going to do, but he was too slow to counter-react as Bourne swiftly knees him in the gut. With him being immobilized for a second, Bourne then grabs this hit man's head and runs it into the wall. Ski mask goes down for the count. Bourne lurches down, checks the unconscious body. He's probably got a major concussion, but he'll live.

Jason grabs the gun on the floor and observes it. Ruger Super Redhawk Alaskan double-action revolver. He slides the cylinder out. Five good rounds left.

Surely this loser isn't a Lee Harvey Oswald. He's a Booth. There must be others in the building seeking to kill him. Bourne march walks, not runs, back to his room. He does notice that he's lost his towel in the process.

He ignores the draft as he creeps silently onto his room's door, on the left-side of the hallway. The door was closed before the morning exercises. Now there's a small slip of openness. Somebody has either been through his room, or _is_ into his room. Bourne raised his revolver up, and eases his head near the door.

A soft _click_ is uttered. Bourne lunges forward. 3 gunshots blast through the door, creating a brief cloud of wood splinters. He rises to a kneeling position.

The 2nd shooter pulls the door open. He's very careful not to rush into whatever danger exists in the hallway. Unlike genius back at the bathroom, this one has done enough jobs to force his target to expose himself.

Bourne can't make a run through the hall without being openly vulnerable to close-action gunfire. He can't retreat back to the bathroom because he would be boxed in without any exit strategy.

Bourne hears the tiny creeks uttered from the floor of his room. The 2nd shooter has backed off deep into his room.

He touches the wall in front of him. Yeah, his 5 good shots from this revolver could penetrate these cheap old walls. But he doesn't know where the shooter is within his room. Maybe he can work that to his advantage.

Bourne aims his gun and fires directly into the wall. He immediately shoots 2 successive rounds increasingly further to the left as he crawls toward the door. He hears footsteps charging for the same direction. Bourne has his own surprise planned.

A sneaker shoe flies into his the line of fire out of the door. Bourne uses his fourth bullet. Jason's 5th shot grazes the 2nd shooter's foot. This gunman instinctively bent over to deal with his wounded foot, with his right hand bearing a Beretta semi-automatic pistol.

Bourne launches himself with this slim window of opportunity. He pins the 2nd shooter and bears his strength against the Beretta-bearing arm, effectively making that piece out of a firing solution. This other assassin also has a ski mask as his disguise.

The 2nd shooter's left hand grasp Bourne's neck. The problem is that the 2nd shooter can't do anything regarding Bourne's left hand.

Which Jason uses to forcefully dig under the gunman's ski mask, and violently grab the hair underneath. Then Bourne takes his solo bullet-remaining revolver and bashes the gunman with at least 5 good thrashings to the head. With the 5th try, Bourne hit him so hard; the revolver broke and gracefully fell into dissembled parts.

As Bourne momentarily marveled at the fact that he pulled a Billy Batts on this hit man, he tossed the 2nd shooter to the floor.

During Bourne's brawl with both shooters, the other residents of this dump of a boarding house varied in their response to hearing the shots. Most have, through years of experience, either bolt locked their doors and hid in their closet, with a minority of them dialing for the police. But the rest went into a frenzy panic of pure hysteria in the rest of the building.

Bourne knew that he must get out of here immediately. 7 minutes ago with the first bullet fired, the police must have been summoned. Which meant that Bourne at best had 8 minutes left to clear out of the building, but there was a very distinct possibility that he had less than half of that time-period actually available.

But first, he needed his clothes back on.

Jason goes into the room, rapidly in a machine-effort put on his sweatpants, basic shirt, and shoes that he had placed within his bag. He doesn't have time for putting on underwear or socks. Bourne zips his bag up and leaves the room. He noticed that the room across from had garnered 2 of the second shooter's shots. Bourne had to make sure…

He lays haymakers upon the door. Bourne went back into operation mode.

"Police! Is anyone in there?"

A faint reply. "Yes!"

"Are you wounded? Do you need assistance."

"No, I'm fine! Just get those criminals!"

With assurance that nobody, outside those losers he dropped, was hurt from his battles, Bourne turned around and grabbed the unconscious 2nd shooter's Berretta piece and stashes it into his bag. Bourne looked up and saw that 3 residents down the hall, running for their lives, witnessed Bourne stealing the gun.

Bourne had to get out of here now. He made a quick movement that scared the residents into scramming away. Great, now people have seen him with a gun.

Then the worst sound that Jason could hear was uttered. Police sirens, and they're getting closer and closer. They're here within a minute.

Jason can't escape through downstairs. He'll be exposed by those residents that saw him with smoking gun in hand, and unlike Europe, the police in America are willing with ease to eliminate any armed criminal that's dangerous to everyone else.

Thus, Bourne will have go upstairs through the roof. He bumps with people trying to get away. He gets to the door leading to the roof, takes the Berretta from his bag, unloaded its magazine clip, and smashed the rusty lock.

He's on the roof. He runs to look below. The police have arrived, in 4 car units. They're being slowed by the flow of people running away from this building, but its only good for about 30 seconds for Jason.

Then he catches to his left, far down the street. A car. Well, a Dodge model from the 1970s to be exact. It's a junker vehicle, but most importantly to Bourne's instincts, its not natural for these surroundings. It must be the get-away vehicle for the assassins that tried to pop Bourne.

Sure enough, a man not normal himself of this area as well, comes into view. He wears clothing very similar to the 2 shooters that Bourne took out, except without a ski mask.

Bourne, knowing that the police have entered the building, took out the binoculars that were inside his bag, and quickly zoomed to get a better look at this 3rd man.

The 3rd man's head full of blonde hair is back against Bourne, so Jason can't get a glimpse of his face. Blondie impatiently opens the car door for the passenger seat, and the car gets the hell out of here.

Bourne has learned 3 things for sure today. One, including this blonde guy and his driver, 4 gunmen tried to take him down today. Second, his binoculars catch the car's license plate. _W856-RKX_.

Three, the police are only a floor away.

Bourne looks around his surroundings, and sees the building next door, under which is where Bourne had conducted his pull-up exercises. He takes a good deep breathe, and dashes.

Picking up speed, he jumps into the air. He lands barely on the edge. He pulls himself up (those exercises were not for nothing!) and lays down flat on the roof. If he can avoid the eyesight of the NYPD police who might or might not be on the roof right now, he will be clear.

Three minutes pass, and Bourne doesn't hear anything. He quietly peeped above this building's roof-border corridor. No police were on the rooftop. The cops must have probably assumed that he had fled the scene of the crime by the front door, and concentrated their efforts in taking the two unconscious losers into custody.

Bourne is relieved. He opens his bag, and in open daylight, he finally gets the rest of his clothing back on, including his jacket. It's cold today.

Jason probes the bag. His money was gone. Thousands of dollar bills that had remained from the cash that Bourne had taken from his lock box two years ago back in Zurich. The 2nd shooter must have taken some into his pocket. Besides avoiding attention from the police and Feds, Bourne had stayed at his flophouse as well to conserve his hard currency. People might get suspicious that a non-rich person, without high class clothing to showcase this fact of wealth, would stay at the Trump Tower or The Michelangelo Hotel for days, paying hundreds of American dollars a pop.

But he isn't in trouble without his cash. It's actually easy to gain access to cash, if you just know where to apprehend it.

Bourne's heart then sank.

His picture of Marie is missing. It's his only hard proof that in such a hostile cruel world where individuals are merely numbers for taxes and votes that she actually existed.

The 2nd shooter stole the picture too, along with the cash. Perhaps so to give him a good photographic visual of his hit man team's target. Now along with the money, it's in the hands of the police.

But Bourne doesn't let distress distract him from his automation. With the cell phone of his from the bag, he then hunts for that girl's business card.

Its because of Jason Bourne wrecking those rapists from days ago is why he almost was assassinated today. The woman might be his only connection to whoever tried to kill Bourne today, and the start of his effort to get his picture back.

He looked at the business card, with a company name based on a personal identity that Bourne has never heard of, though many other people around the world actually know it very well.

As the ring dial continued as Bourne is calling for this girl, he looked at the business card again.

_**Felix Leiter Private Investigations, Inc. **_


	9. Short Cuts

**_Siberia_**

Somewhere in the snowy deserts of Siberia, beyond civilization, a government worker not important enough for people to know of his name or actual occupation is in tremendous pain. He was punched twice in the back. Now he feels a sensation on his chest. Fingers rise to make contact with this feeling.

They dip into a liquid substance. Without looking, this nobody knew his fate. Gunshots feel like heavy penetrating punches, and both came out through his chest. He doesn't have much time left. Then he hears footsteps crushing the snow beneath. With his remaining strength, he tries to turn around…

…and the bullet enters through his right temple. The body falls down, red splashed across the white ground.

The gunman puts his firearm back into his coat, and marches back to civilized Russia. Another bureaucrat enemy has signed their last signature with red ink. This certainly beats prison.

**_The Bronx_**

"This may not be a bad thing after all…"

"But how?!? We didn't get the guy. Both Gary and Korl are in the hands of the cops, and now I am damn certain that Meloni knows of this mystery man and will exploit the hell out of it."

"No no, that cockroach getting away might have been a blessing in disguise as a serious fuck up by you."

Of course Chuck doesn't know what's going through Donnie's skull.

"Charlie Boy, if I was Vito, you know what I would see of the current situation this time next week?"

"That Donnie and his people are in a world of sh-"

"Nah, listen. I would see that a mysterious super cop or super fighter is out on the streets. No known affiliations, hell he could be a solo act, a wild threat for me to have to deal with. Maybe he wants my turf and action. Now certainly it would be a direct threat to everything I've worked for if one of my trusted lieutenants in Meloni, who also coincidently would do anything to keep Donnie Kennedy from completing his merger with the network, happened to be killed at the hands of this free-roaming madman killer."

Chuck smiles.

**_Manhattan_**

Thankfully they didn't take his cell phone. He tabs the buttons.

"Hello, Leiter Investigations."

"Hi, listen do you remember me?"

"Umm…"

"It's Michael from the other night-"

"Oh yes you are! Sorry I just got another phone call coming in. Look, I don't know how to say thank you for what happened-"

"It's alright. Would you care to meet like-"

"Tonight? Sure. 7?"

"Yes, where-"

"Starbucks store near my workplace.

"Where is your work-"

"You got my office business card. I'll just be leaving my dayshift and we'll meet there, ok?"

Bourne just realized that this is the first time that someone else, not him, dominated and controlled the conversation. If he wasn't so wired, tired, and pissed, he would have laughed.

"Perfect. I'll be there. 7. Good?"

"Sure, see you there."

Bourne hanged up. He'll get his answers tonight. He continued walking into the crowds of thousands of pedestrians walking through Manhattan. Moments later, he becomes visually absorbed by the masses.

_**Leiter Investigations, Inc. - Manhattan**_

Barbara ponders about this mystery hero of hers. She opened a drawer in her desk area and grabs out some cosmetic products. Before she gets off work tonight, she'll quickly touch up for him. She pictures this Michael Lemieux, his blonde hair, his blue eyes, the way he beat the hell out of those rapists. Beautiful, but powerful.

Opps. She forgot all about that other phone call, the one that she put on hold. She scrambles to get back to that second caller.

"I'm sorry for putting you on hold. How may I help you?"

A charmingly weathered but sexy voice echoes through the wires. "Yes, can you connect a James Bond with your boss, Mr. Felix Leiter?"

"Certainly. Hold for a moment." She dialed up her boss at his office.

"Mr. Leiter?"

"Yes Barbara?"

"A Mr. James Bond is on the line for you."

She hears a low-toned chuckle come from her boss's end of the phone. He must have done it by impulse without realizing that she's still listening.

"Yes Barbara, connect him to my office."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hello James"

"Hello Felix. How are you?"

"Better than your liver. Where are you?"

"I'm on the flight to JFK from Barcelona. Listen, I need to talk with you privately tomorrow. You have a schedule opening?"

"James, I'll make an opening just for you. Call me when you get in tonight with your choice of time, ok?"

Click

Bastard.


	10. If Looks Could Kill

_(Note: Since my last updated chapter, THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM was released and well, let's just say that for narrative purposes, it never happened in this story. Likewise, the James Bond I'm using isn't Daniel Craig but ole Pierce Brosnan. Big fan of CASINO ROYALE, but that Bond doesn't work for my tale._

_Anyway, sorry that so many of you waited so long for the next chapter. For a good while, I thought this epic was presumed dead in the water, but like Jason Bourne, it survived.)_

_**A small town in European (Western) Russia**_

Nobody in the small grocery store noticed the woman with red hair walking in. Some glanced and fewer may have recognized her as a local resident, but otherwise they went back to their pressing concerns. Those that do know her, think of her a nice transplant resident who from a major city up north, but of which exactly they don't know.

She doesn't bother with a store cart, and heads directly to the canned goods. What she needs today can be carried in one arm.

Minutes later, she's waiting in line for the store's sole cash register. She scans the newspapers lined up on the stand. She isn't reading the headlines, but between the lines. More than a decade ago, she like many of her nation's comrades, look hopefully at the nation, for with a democratic capitalist Russia; it would be the beginning of a brave new world.

Instead, it's still the same old cowardly self. The country is ruled by a former KGB agent, succeeded to the presidency through so-called "legal" means, and using meaningless elections to solidify his regime, destroy the opposition, and stay in power permanently. The Czars and Communists may be gone, but the authoritative beast still rules in Moscow.

She internally frowns, but presses ahead. She can't make a difference with all that's going wrong with the wide world, but she can with _her _world…

After she leaves the store, cans under her right arm, she puts the bag on the back-basket of her worn-but-dependable bicycle.

She rides off back to home, but she doesn't notice a man across the street. He may look like he's been reading a magazine, but he's been tracking her since morning. Invisible to everyone else, he puts down the paper.

Since freedom, he's definitely got his groove back.

_**Back in New York City, at a Starbucks**_

This is going nowhere. Thirty minutes of useless talk, idle conversation with this woman. David Webb wants to continue this flirting game, but Jason Bourne wants answers.

His hand, gently touching hers for some time, now grabs it with serious but not dramatic tension.

"Barbara, why did those men attack you?"

Her eyes, now from a fawning gaze to that of dreaded fear, locks with his.

"They wanted my money, and wanted to….pull a train on me."

Bourne takes a breath. "You're lying."

"Now why you say that-"

"I say that because I've been, to put it another way, a magic trick for some time. I was there one day, and puff, disappeared into thin air. I like that nobody knows what happened to me, and those people still don't know where I am. Then I save you, and what happens? Some gunmen in ski-masks try to whack me today at my home. These aren't professionals, but very-skilled amateur jobbers. If it's the people I'm invisible from, it would be their very best and brightest, not simply men from this town. They're criminals, or affiliated with crime somehow, and they found me after I rescued you. So Barbara, quit LYING and TELL me what is going on."

She's clearly frightened.

"Michael….what are you?"

"I'm….a lost man in a lost land."

Suddenly, his fingers penetrated underneath her long-sleeve shirt, crawling up her arm, and he feels the slight bruises left from syringe use. So that explains things…..

"Doesn't your workplace conduct drug tests?"

Her eyes look down, in shame. She's been exposed, and feels violated by his intrusion.

"It does, but I know when they'll happen, and I….simply inject around them. It doesn't interfere with my job."

Bourne wanted to damn her for this wreckless drug use, but he can't be judgmental. He was a bastard murderer after all.

He takes his hand out of her sleeves, and eases his hold on her arm. Barbara slightly loosens up, but still visibly upset. Bourne refocuses himself.

"Barbara, what did those men want? They simply weren't junkies wanting a midnight snack, now did they?"

"No, I owe Donnie money. I've been avoiding payment for weeks, and they finally caught up to me."

"Donnie?"

"Donnie Kennedy, he's a…local businessman in my neighborhood."

Bourne perfectly understood what she was saying.

"So, how much did you owe him?"

"About $700."

_That's it?_ It's NOT worth killing someone over, which means he is one bad man, and most of all, Bourne is now involved with this mess.

Oh terrific.


End file.
